The Queen Remembered

“And so despite her injuries,” the king said, glancing at her with a bright smile of encouragement before turning back toward the vast crowd gathered below the castle balcony, “your queen will be joining you for the festival in three days’ time.”

The crowd roared and the king laughed. His merriment seemed genuine. She wondered if it was these days. A few years had passed, after all, since he became king and she became queen. Though in another memory, a false one that glimmered at the surface of her thoughts, he had been king for nearly two decades.

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The Dreaming Queen

“You know, your eyes are lovely. So blue. It’s like they’re made of sapphires.”

Clara smiled. “And my heart is made of diamond.”

The tavern-keeper leaned an elbow on the bar table and laughed. Likely he thought she was flirting back at him. She was not. Her heart was indeed made of diamond. A creature cursed she was. Like the king of myth whose touch turned all to gold, Clara could transform all to diamond. Though in many ways, her curse was more merciful than that of the king’s. She could only harm who and what she loved, and then only if her bare skin were to touch. She could still eat and drink, so long as she did not consume what she loved.

A curse afflicted half the members in her family, each in different ways. Her sister lay in eternal sleep. Her husband had been transformed into a bear. She had thus far failed to find the wicked creature who had cursed them.

Clara was weary from her hunting and heartsick from missing her family. Now that the first snows of winter had fallen, she was weary too from cold. She could not even enjoy a hot bowl of tomato soup with crusty bread, for she loved that meal and it would likely turn to diamond. So she settled for porridge and bitter ale. And she dreamed that the tavern’s beds were soft and warm, for it seemed sleep would be her only pleasure.

But as she ate, she’d heard people telling tales to each other, and she realized that a good tale was another pleasure she might enjoy. The keeper of the tavern seemed a fair storyteller. She’d heard the end of one he’d been telling a nearby group of mill-workers. And he seemed to want an excuse to linger by her “sapphire” eyes. So when he came to check if her ale cup needed filling, she asked for a story instead.

“A true story or a mystical one?”

Clara narrowed her eyes. “A bit of both.”

“Have you ever heard the tale of kingdom Callimoray and their queen?” the tavern-keeper asked.

Clara took a sip of ale and shook her head.

“Rumor has it she’s a dream-walker.”

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